Pyroelectricity
by Dismayed Critic
Summary: It’ll be a more cosmic explosion, like the apocalypse, but inside your head. It has to do with pyroelectricity, a muggle idea involving crystals and temperature," Experiments sometimes don't make sense. [oneshot]


Rating: R, purely for language. Could be a hard PG-13, but I didn't want to risk it.

A/N: this is strikingly different from all of my other works. One of the most noticeable differences is the fact that it's in first person. It's a moderately pointless fic, occurring Post-Hogwarts and Post-war, but you never really find that out. Beginning is rather shaky, but I feel like starting it somewhere else would be to revealing.

**Pyroelectricity**

"I am thinking of conducting an experiment in which the autonomous element will hammer you 'till your brain cells fry. It'll be wild and you'll laugh and laugh until you explode, just like Humpty-Dumpty, only different, but just like good ole Humpty, all the kings horses (I never understood how horses, what with their shoes and all, could even attempt to put him back together) and all the kings men won't be able to find the remnants of you. It'll be a more cosmic explosion, like the apocalypse, but inside your head. It has to do with pyroelectricity, a muggle idea involving crystals and temperature, but in your mind. Much too complicated for your ity-bity brain to handle. It'll be a bit like X and all you'll want to do is everything you've ever wanted to do. Only it won't be lethal, or fatal. And it still doesn't really make sense, the meaning behind it. The meaning behind life. I mean, we're all here and who the hell knows why? But in all honesty, who the hell cares? Our species has been here for millions of years and the only people who have taken to contemplating that menial inquiry are existentialist priests who no longer believe in God and everything he stands for. Not that I believe in him, I suppose you could call me and atheist. Or a relative one at the."

Who knows where her rambling was leading too, all that mattered was that she had a point. Some crazy, fucked up, ridiculously cryptic point, but a point nonetheless. All she wanted me to do was interrupt, tell her to shut up, that I couldn't understand where this was leading to and why it mattered, what the hell the deal was with Humfro-whatever, some old muggle nursery rhyme, and the meaning of life, and existentialist priests and where that came from. All the questions she was presenting in a blatantly cryptic manner and all the answers she was giving. I was never good at symbolism.

"Is there really a meaning of life? I mean is there a reason why the hell we're all here? I don't think so, you know? It's not like some spiritual being thought it would be fun to put some odd looking puppets on this planet to play with her stuffed animals and then forgot about them for millions of years. And somehow over time, we developed emotions. Painful emotions. Emotions that no one, no matter how enlightened they are, knows how to deal with. They always told me to forgive and forget, but they wouldn't want me to forget them, would they? Would they really want me to forget their mangled bodies? I don't-"

"I give up. You're too fucking cryptic, Granger, I only wanted to know why you hit me."

"Don't you see? I'm telling you. This is how my brain works. I can't stop it. It's like my pyroelectricity experiment, an explosion. I wanted to try and recreate emotions, painful ones. Like loss and exhaustion and anger and hopelessness. They berate you and slam into you and you can't stop them no matter how hard you try. And no one is like you, Malfoy. No one else can just block out the pain and the hurt and the regret. No one else can just decide not to feel," she was getting desperate now, her face was splotchy and red and I could tell she was about to cry, it reminded me of that movie I saw. The Notebook, it was a stupid story, but she reminded me of the girl, the pretty one with the red hair. Only she was so much prettier and ten times more intelligent, "I blame everything else, I ask questions, I try to be like _you_, but it doesn't work. It'll never work, so now I'm _blaming _you because it's so much easier. It's always been easier, it's like when you're a kid and you blame your doll for getting you in trouble. Or tell the teacher it was the mean boy's fault, the one that was bigger then everyone else and so insecure he would sit by himself and deal with every accusation that was thrown at him. Doesn't anything faze you? Since when are you Superman? You aren't the hero God dammit. You aren't supposed to be, but somehow the only thing that can affect you is kryptonite. A fucking nonexistent element!"

I don't understand her. She's not so ambiguous anymore, I completely understand. But what the hell is this Kryptoid crap? All her mundane references to a culture I'll never understand. She's crying now, I can't believe I made her cry. She's just as stoic as me, if not more so. Only she lets you know when she's mad or happy or tired. But never does she admit to pain.

"Dammit Malfoy. Your too fucking thick. Nearly as dense as your sidekicks," that one hurt. She knows that Crabbe was killed in battle. She knows and she's aiming for a low blow. I could shoot one right back at her, but I've never seen her so venerable before and I'm not enjoying it as much as I thought I would, "I need to start that experiment soon, maybe I can show you what emotion feels like. You don't deserve to be immortal. Unbeatable," _I'm not_, "Do you ever wonder how life would be if pants weren't invented? Would men still be walking around in loin cloths or would someone have developed a manly skirt? Like a kilt," how does she do that? She was nearly at her breaking point and now…now she's babbling about skirts and loin cloths, "Maybe everyone would just be naked, like Eden."

Gods, I want her to stop. I should tell her to shut her stupid fat mouth which isn't really that fat. It's actually quite a nice shape, and red. She doesn't wear that make-up goop so maybe it's from her desperate manifesto? Maybe she turns incredibly pink when she's angry or sad or whatever the hell she was.

Eden, I remember reading about that. It's some branch of muggle culture. Very different from wizarding truth.

"Granger-"

"Of course, Eden never existed. There was no poisoned apple and no goddamn snake. As I've already established, I'm an atheist,"

"Granger-"

"Did you know how many men don't wash their hands after…activity? It's a surprisingly disgusting number, which is why I scourify everything before touching. Or eating. Or drinking. I suffer from paranoia, so obviously some things-"

"Granger!"

"I've always wondered what India was like. Have you ever been? I suppose it's wonderful this time of-" I'm trying to block her out. She's rattling on relentlessly about nonessential topics. I think she just mentioned the weather, but I can't be certain. All I can notice are her eyes. They're so goddamn bright. And she's going to cry again. I just noticed she's stopped talking.

Gods. When did she get pretty? It's got to be the food here. Maybe I can sue this stupid diner, or plead temporary insanity?

"Malfoy-" She's addressing me, and she's not blaming me anymore, "why are you here?"

I can't help but wonder that myself, so I shrug and she hits me again. But this time it hurts, because she's admitted to defeat. And I've watched her. Suddenly I understand. She's told me everything about herself. She misses her parents desperately and she never had a happy muggle childhood, she blames herself for her parents death. And for Crabbes. And for Lunas and Lupins and Moodys and her muggle friends and Weasly twin number two. Which doesn't really make sense because if anyone should blame themselves, it's Potter. But he doesn't blame himself. I know, we've had lunch. Maybe it's because she told him not to. And she's always right and always believable so why wouldn't he trust her? Why wouldn't he do just that?

She's watching me now, trying to catch me in a weak spot. Trying to make me repeat her performance, but more spectacularly.

I won't do it.

"Malfoy-" She's trying to get me to talk to her again, maybe I'll smirk, it's always worked before, "Never mind."

She's leaving. She's already put on her coat and is grabbing her bag. My mother has that bag.

Her coat is dancing in the wind. Twirling around her, dancing to the symphony of her life. I understand pyroelectricity now. I feel it. It started in my chest, but that's not where father told me emotions stem from. Your brain. Your brain is where they start. I don't want her to leave, to walk away, but I can't see her anymore. All I can see is the empty street of grayness and the rain. I know I'll never see her again. Its innate truth is shocking. I've never just known anything before, and now that I do, I wish I could take it back. I'll miss her.

I've never missed anyone before; I wonder what it feels like.


End file.
